Love Letters to All My Facebook Sexbots

Something happened in September and the occasional sexbot friend request on Facebook turned into half a dozen requests per day. The names got better and then worse. The messages went from hypersexual to something that wasn’t quite English and sorta resembled a speech by a very drunk Trump. In any case, I started saving screenshots of the best ones so I could celebrate them and write them tiny love letters. Here they are. Let them into your heart and give them your credit card info.



Dear Amelia Teresa Villareal,

I know your mom stole your whole name from her favorite telenovela. I usually get creeped out by folks who use the same photo twice on their profile, but not with you. The laptop immediately told me you were a fellow writer. Your watch told me you could be my sugar mama. Your ass told me you like to hit the gym. The obvious fluffiness of your bed looked inviting. Sadly, I would never visit you in Erie, Pennsylvania. You, mi querida Amelia, were just another sexbot.




I hope you write a book for us from the digital ether, my love. See you on the other side.


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Dear Kate S Bond,


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I have to be honest with you. I always try to distance myself as much as possible from the millions of dudebros out there. I love, respect, and appreciate women and never act in ways that would make them feel uncomfortable or look at them in ways that remind them that we live in a culture where the male gaze rules all because patriarchy is a fucking cancer that won’t go away. That being said, the first thing I noticed about you was your left nipple. Your left breast spoke to me, screamed at me it’s message of equality as a round, fleshy scream against Facebook’s silly rules and a hefty flag for the Free the Nipple campaign. I salute your bravery and take my hat off to your revolutionary nipple, my dear Kate. I wish you both the best.

Too bad you vanished about two minutes after sending me that friend request. I feel we could have been comrades in the battle for equality.


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Dear Marie Cailin Wright,


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You actually had a regular name and I almost loved you for it. Your “Baewatch” bathing suit was just icing on the cake. You were from Baton Rouge, and my love for Louisiana pushed me to accept you. However, the threat of your pointy nipples poking through your bathing suit reminded me too much of Kate. You became a cheap version of a true warrior, and that’s why I ignored you.


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Dear Renata Jamie Lizzie,


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I write noir and thus see noir everywhere. Your friend request felt more like a cry for help. The simple room, the bad surgery, the weird face…it all spoke to me of an awful brothel in some godforsaken town. It reminded me of all the abuse some women go through and how fucking wrong it is that we’re not tackling human trafficking on a global scale with everything we have. Your friend request depressed me.


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Dear Eva,


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Eva, the first woman. You came to me from Athens, Michigan. You arrived with a superb profile pic where two glamorous ladies looked like they were about to conquer New York’s nightlife. However, I wasn’t sure which one was you. Uncertainty lead to confusion and confusion lead to heartbreak. Why no last name? Maybe you were a Russian spy. Maybe your name had been given to you by an overbearing mother you instilled in you crippling religious thoughts. Why two people in your profile pic? The two women don’t look alike, so sisters was out of the question. A friend? A wife? A fellow spy? No information was given in your biography. Ultimately, despite your name, I had to pass. I got other shit to think about, you know?


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Dear Robinson Marsden Maribel,


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You can’t start a relationship with a lie, and that’s not you in the photo. I don’t know her name, but the curvaceous woman in that profile pic is a model I’ve seen elsewhere. Then there’s the issue of the second photo. My lord, what the fuck happened to your face? Why is the lower portion of you ear so blurry? What’s wrong with your eyes? What kind of bizarre helmet are you wearing? Is that a duck face? Get away from me, you liar! And to the model in the profile pic, why the fuck are your cushions on the floor?


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Dear Mandy George Edna,


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I’ll keep this simple: I can’t love a woman with three first names.


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Dear Lee Latoya and Taylor Anastasia,


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You two remind me of girls in my classes who belonged to sororities. Your message was hella charming: “I am a horny young woman and I am happy to help you let go of all that pressure. What is your naughty secret desire or fantasy? Hey, you can tell me, I’m so easy and fun to talk to, we can talk about anything too.” Well, I want to talk about the state of the world. I wonder if you would really contribute in a meaningful way to a conversation about Pharoah Sanders or Thomas Mann or Stanley Kubrick. Not because you’re beautiful young women, but because of the way you write. Why do you want to know about my secret desires? You say you want to help me let go of that pressure, but I doubt you’ll send me money.


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Plus, the fact that you both went with the same message on your profiles is shady as fuck. Lastly, let’s be honest: you are two white, wealthy, party girls. I have more in common with a retired Turkish chess champion than with you two. Oh, and Lee, it’s hard to concentrate on your abs when there’s a toilet in the background.


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Dear Birgit Beich Meyer,


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I would love to spend a lazy afternoon with you, eating takeout Chinese and listening to John Coltrane while the rain pummels the windows, the creek roars outside my door, and you tell me all about life in Bad Kissingen, a little spa town (whatever the fuck that is) in the Bavarian region of Lower Franconia. However, I believe in aliens and your eyes tell me you’re one of them. Get away from me, you shapeshifting reptilian. You look like you listen to Alex Jones and don’t laugh. I will not become a pawn in your plan to steal this planet from humans. Fuck you.


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Gabino Iglesias is a writer, journalist, and book reviewer living in Austin, TX. He’s the author of ZERO SAINTS (Broken River Books),HUNGRY DARKNESS (Severed Press), and GUTMOUTH (Eraserhead Press). His reviews have appeared in Electric Literature, The Rumpus, 3AM Magazine, Marginalia, The Collagist. Heavy Feather Review, Crimespree, Out of the Gutter, Vol. 1 Brooklyn, HorrorTalk, Verbcide, and many other print and online venues. You can find him on Twitter at @Gabino_Iglesias





About Gabino Iglesias

Gabino Iglesias is a writer, journalist, and book reviewer living in Austin, TX. He’s the author of Zero Saints and a few other things no one will ever read. You can find him on Twitter at @Gabino_Iglesias

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